


10 short CFUD-based DN pairing snippets

by Harukami



Category: Camp Fuck You Die (LJ game), Death Note
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-27
Updated: 2011-06-27
Packaged: 2017-10-20 19:13:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/216198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Harukami/pseuds/Harukami
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What the title says. As audience I spammed these anonymously at DN characters at CFUD once, apparently.</p><p>Originally posted to LJ on Jul. 9th, 2005.</p>
            </blockquote>





	10 short CFUD-based DN pairing snippets

Mello pins you down and gets out the whip and brings it down - crack, crack _crack_ and how can you argue that? You know you deserve it. You know you want it. But you couldn't ask for it so you just close your eyes and grit your teeth and twine your fingers into your hair as you breathe through it and pretend it isn't happening and, ah, you think he might be laughing. Strange, how you couldn't remember what his laughter sounded like.  


***

  
They switch, really, though not as often as either of them would secretly like.

That's the trouble about when the lack of communication breaks down. Mello ends up biting the pillow, arched hard, clawing at the bedsheets with the wild abandon of an animal in rut and it's small comfort that Near is nearly silent above him as he moves, or the effort it takes to be so.  


***

  
It's a problem sometimes because they can't talk about it. That's when it's fast and hard and unpleasant and Mello fights back, shoves Near away with desperately painted nails and Near is shocked enough by Mello's behaviour that he lets him.

It's not bravery that brings Mello slinking back over to him, to crawl up his thighs with hungry hands and mouth.  


***

  
He can lie better than that, but he doesn't want to. Obvious lies are their own sort of pleasure, a lot of _I don't want to_ and _I don't like that_ and _stop that, you're making me sick_ and who could really believe it when his hands are moving, tracing out patterns on bare skin, tangling into hair. Who could believe it when he cuts his words off in Near's mouth? But it's hard not to believe because, after all, he doesn't say anything else about it.

Near prefers to lie by omission which is why, when Mello rolls over finally and says in a tone so idle and bored that it has to be false, "Do you love me?", he pretends he was already asleep.  


***

  
His concern for their welfare doesn't mix well with his lack of regrets. He feels he should have more he can say to them in way of apology and explanation than, "Ah, I know I am doing wrong by you."

"You aren't," Mello says.

"That's fine," Near says.

In L's defence, he decides as he lies back, as they lean against his sides and pretend not to notice him as their fingers seek out things to touch and things to hold and things to press against. In his defence, they know they're doing wrong by him, as well.  


***

  
His titles for himself fluxuate with his guilt, or at least, with how much he intends to show of it to whoever he is talking to. He's not bad. He's bad. A deeply bad person who talks to other people who may (or may not) be bad (depending on various factors such as who they are talking to, and why, and how good their intentions are.)

He is aware that whether or not he is bad -- a relative, moral term -- he is ruthless, and that is why it is all right to put out just enough to draw the two boys into bed with them, but too little to let them leave.  


***

  
"Confession is good for the soul," Near says in a hollow mockery of Mello's ideals and Mello refuses to rise to the bait, sits and stews and guesses it was Near who said it.

L answers instead, suggests Catholicism in a fairly blatant mockery because he knows Near fairly well. But no, he is not looking to _confess_ , just confess, and there's a difference between something to get off your shoulders and something to scrub from your soul.

Mello lies between the two of them and listens to the rhythm of their breath and thinks they're lucky; they get it out and over with and don't have to live with the knowledge that they're going to hell.  


***

  
It is a lonely life, living without love, but a fair one. L has always been a man scraped down, skinned, tanned, peeled away to the bare essentials and then slowly building his 'self' up again in a patchwork quilt of quirks to put off prying eyes.

He does not live a life of regrets -- rather resents himself when he feels it, really -- but he's lost something simple and strange and selfish.

They are such children, forcing themselves into his image, and he thinks: no, boys, you must pare yourself away perfectly, you must press yourself down into nothing until you've stopped existing and then maybe you might love me, because maybe you might know me --

But then he stops and remembers he knows little of love and perhaps he is a little resentful.

Perhaps.  


***

  
The answer should be obvious, he says, as if he can't still taste the rot in his mouth. It's a thick taste, a choking taste, with enough of a horrible, sickly-sweet edge to it to remind him of everything he's been missing since sugar's been banned. He thinks he may be a little desperate, his body craving things it knows is bad for him.

He knows he may be a little desperate.

There's a danger in the chase, and that is of thinking like, becoming like, moving unto and oh, what a lovely point of view it is. Of course, it's like being god -- the god of a small world, the god of very personal world, the god of intimacies and he wants to touch on that godhood, mount it, press it back into the floor and rock it until it realizes _I'm human_ and _I'm dead_ and _I've deserved this._

But those are silly thoughts, really, and he can live without indulging his cravings even if his body shakes for the want of it.  


***

  
L knows the children are being used and the hardest part is really that he's been accustomed to the idea for so long that he can't even mind it any more. He made his choices; it's fine to live with them. Really, it's fine.

Still, when they run out to greet him and wrap arms around his legs and the older ones watch with tired knowing eyes and _don't_ \-- that's when L regrets it. There is no way to greet them any more, and no way to apologize, that wouldn't be too adult. Sometimes he fears that's the only way to get through to them any more. Sometimes he fears that he's really fine with that.  



End file.
